Asvora: Tales of a Valkyrie
by Bard Sabrial SilverOak
Summary: It could be rated R, I don't know. I've been in high school too long, and my sense of morality has diminished. Anyways, this game is set in the upcoming MMOG, Dark Ages of Camelot (DAOC), the community of which I no longer belong. It is placed in the A
1. Asvora: Rise of the Valkryie

It was time.  
The cloaked figure in the shadowy corner moved slightly, surprising the surrounding Norse, all of whom would have sworn that the only living things that had been there were spiders. The Bar Keeper would have sworn that only the shadows were there. His tavern was as clean as a sea-washed bone, no spiders would survive long in his tavern. At least none of the spiders that he could see. He was almost blind.  
The shadows occupant had drawn out a lyre, from where no one could see. She, for it was a she, smiled slightly and plucked a few chords. A Master was she, with more power held in her hands then most people could live with. She could heal with her words, or send her enemies into eternal torture. She could make an Eldritch mad with rage as easily as she could make one weep. She could turn brother against brother, king against king, god against god. Yet everything she owned she could carry on her back and feel no strain.  
Delicate fingers glided over the well made lyre's strings, notes gently echoing through out the room, her personal way of calling attention. With her song of welcome she added her own soft voice, singing in an ancient language, her voice twining around the notes with ease. The notes faded off, as did her voice until there was silence in the room, where once there was the low rumble of talk.  
"A story.", was all she said before she rose the lyre once more and began to tell her tale.  
  
***  
  
"I want to become a valkyrie, mother." said the girl, looking up from the roots she was peeling to gaze, wide-eyed and innocent, into her mother's sky blue eyes. Her mother smiled and patted her daughter's blonde hair, so much like her own hair when she was younger.  
"Yes, dear." she answered, her voice monotone and nonjudgmental of her daughter's longings. She too, remembered longing to become one of Odin's handmaidens. That dream she gave up long ago. She was a wife now, to a good man, a brave man, and she had to watch the farm while her man was gone. It was a good life she had. Her daughter chattered on still though, not noticing that her mother's attention was elsewhere.  
"The skald told me more tales, mother, about how to become one. Well...actually not how to become one. Just how others became one...He said that path is difficult, and I have a good future here, and I should go off and play with my friends instead of listening to a poor man's rantings and tales. I then hugged him and told him I loved him and then he shooed me away by saying he was going to call Axe onto me. I told him that I wasn't scared of Axe and Axe wouldn't do anything to me... ", she stops her peeling to look down at her feet, her face red with shame, " Because I fed Axe some meat when he was hungry and chased Thison and his gang away when they were throwing stones at him. He then got mad at me and said I should go home, but his eyes were sparkling. I like him, mother. "  
"Yes, dear. " came the reply to the long prattle, a toneless few words.  
"When is Daddy going to be home, mother?" The younger girl paused a moment to concentrate on a particularly difficult potato, "I miss him."  
  
**  
  
"Recklon, when do you think he will be back? He said he was going to bring me something nice..." The once-girl pouted as she set herself on the large man's lap, lightly fondling his large, muscular chest.  
The man laughed loudly, to the woman's ears it sounded like the roar of a mountain lion, and moved slightly away from his frothing beer. She just got a new dress and it was her own personal preference to keep beer stains off it. A giant arm snaked around her petite frame, while the other grabbed the mug of beer and brought it quickly to his mouth. She squirmed as far away from the beer as possible as it started running down his beard.  
"Recklon!...", she pouted again, her perfect lips pursed slightly in frustration, "I just got this dress... I don't want beer all over it!"  
Recklon eyed her over the rim of his near empty mug, as if calculating her. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were blue, like most of the Midgardian were, her form curvaceous, and inviting, and when she pouted he thought her irresistible. He put the mug down and gave the woman an impish grin.  
"You know what drives me wild?"  
The woman's eyes reflected his, for they suddenly sparkled with mischief, and she moved herself closer to his bushy face, close enough so that their noses nearly touched.  
"Oh? What is it that, brave warrior?"  
Recklon's breath stank like the beer he was drinking, but she was use to it. She had to be. A large hand caressed her side, and she shuddered, drawing herself closer to the man.  
"A woman like you with the smell about her of mah favorite brew. Drives a man like me wild..."  
She smiled, and turning slightly, dipped her fingers into Recklon's mug of beer, cupping some of the brew and splashed herself with it. She sighed inwardly, for she knew she got some on her dress, but if all went well, tomorrow she would be wearing an even better one.   
With the smell of the brew on herself, she raised her head to the side of Recklon's hairy face, her mouth tantalizingly close to his ear.  
"A wild man like you would be a danger to our customers. I will need to calm you down..." she whispered, her voice husky, before rising up with her hand in Recklon's, and leading him into the rooms that existed for one sole purpose. She shut the door.  
  
The sleepy dawn arose in the foggy sky, long slender fingers reaching into the small window where there lay a sleeping man and a woman, blinding the woman for a moment, before she turned over to look at the wooden wall.  
The wall looked the wall at her once-house. She whimpered slightly, and flicked a tear from her eye. Her Daddy would be ashamed of her now. So would her mother. She was ashamed of herself, but she could not live any other way. She had to earn her living some how, and this is the way she must.   
The woman arose from the bed, her back straight her eyes focused on something she could not comprehend. No. She wouldn't feel sorry for herself. She would live as she always did. Glancing down at her now tattered dress, she sighed to herself. It stank of beer, of human nature, and was torn beyond repair. Someday she might get use to it, the constant wearing of her soul and her dresses, but today was not that day.   
She turned her head and eyed the man beside her, his body sprawled on the bed. Her eyes looked over at him, calculating him. She pursed her lips, and grabbing a knife from her small dresser, she slipped her hand under the sheets. With a quick movement, she cut Recklon's money bag from his person. Fraying the ends of the rope, thus giving her the excuse that it had ripped in his...readiness, the woman then opened it up and peered inside. Her lips still pursed, she drew out several roughly beaten gold coins, as well as a few silver pieces. It was more then she usually took, but the previous night had been unsatisfactory to her, for all the damage she had taken. Now she could receive her full satisfaction. Her thoughts drifted to what she would buy with her payment, interrupted by the mutterings of the man beside her. Rising up from her bed, she walked over to where Recklon's weapons and armor lay, and she placed the considerably lighter money bag near them. If he noticed that he had less silver and gold, she would simply tell him that he spent it on his drinking last night. If he still didn't believe her, the Bar Keeper would back her up. She grinned wickedly. It was always good to make friends with the Bar Keeper.  
She stood up and eyed her dress again, before stripping it off. It could be used as rags. Walking over to her closet, she opened up her cache of morning-after clothes, and slipped on a simple dress. Before exiting the room, she splashed cold water unto her face, and braided her ruffled hair.  
The tavern stunk of vomit and beer, the usual morning smells. She was thankful that she had been raised up the duty of cleaning it up for the noon and night time regulars. She now had the night shift.  
After getting one of the younger serving girls to bring Recklon some breakfast and a tea to help his inevitable hangover, she sat down by the bar and ordered a tea for herself, while looking around the calm, quiet tavern. Quiet for a few moments at least.  
She didn't hear the crowd until they were nearly on top of the tavern. She was still in shock when they barged into the tavern.  
They were a group of warriors, numbering no more then a dozen, and by the look of it, they had just come away from a skirmish. Blood was still running down the faces of the men who carried their warrior brethren into the tavern, and those who were carried were mangled. The woman was wide-eyed in shock, when one of the men demanded her to bring a bowl of fresh water. He was tall, and imposing in his presence. She hurried to do his bidding.  
From then on, she was in a daze. She was somewhat aware of the headman arguing with the Bar Keeper about how the wounded were sprawled on top of the tables, saying how it was bad for business. The headman shut him up by handing the Bar Keeper payment equal to a month of business. She didn't know a lot about the care for the wounded, and neither did any of the other women who soon found themselves to nurses. She was helping to clean a particularily nasty wound to a punctured arm, chanting a blessing unto the unfortunate owner, wishing she could do something to ease the pain that this person must feel. She suddenly got dizzy for a moment, which she blamed on a lack of foodm when she heard a quiet, pain-filled voice asking for her attention.   
The face she looked upon was feminine, and the woman widened her eyes as realization of who she was caring for hit her. The wounded valkyrie smiled slightly, and nodded her head in thanks at the wide-eyed woman, then said something in a language unknown to her. What she said must have meant something of importance, for one for one of the warriors rushed to her side, and began to speak to her in a hurried tone. The woman strained to try to understand the exchange, but she could not. She sighed softly and resigned to clean the wound, while listening to the moans and demands of the warriors. The warrior lightly touched her hand, which brought her out of the daze she had been in, and lightly shook his head. Unwanted tears filled his eyes, as he left the table. The woman looked at the face of the valkyrie, with her eyes now focused on the throne of Odin, her mouth ajar with awe, and then covered her with a somewhat clean blanket, letting everyone know that one was lost. Herself and the others had no time to mourn however, for the wounded still needed caring for.  
The woman had wondered where their village priest was, when she was told that he was helping to deliver a Head Family's first child. The arrival of new proceeded the departure of the old. Besides, he had said, if Hel wanted them, she would take them.   
Recklon had left, saying something that with the hangover he had, he would be of no help to anyone. With his departure, several other of the regulars left, and no one entered the tavern while the warriors were still in there. The atmosphere was more depressing then usual, and there were other tavern's to go to.  
She worked well into the night, bandaging, rinsing, and soothing the souls of the wounded. She left only when she was bidden to, by a tap on her shoulder by the headman, and his finger pointed to the rooms. It was one of the rare nights she slept alone.   
With her awakening, she quickly washed herself, and rebraided her hair quickly before exiting into the main part of the tavern. She was shocked, again.  
The tavern was empty, and it could have been just another day, and the previous day nothing more then a dream, if there hadn't been the overriding scent of blood drifting through out the tavern, and dried blood on the floor and tables. She was a thousand times thankful that she wasn't responsible for cleaning it all up.  
The woman was confused, however, for there were no men from the previous day here. When one of the woman who had helped walked by her, she pulled her to a stop.  
"Sissel! What happened here? Where are all the men from yesterday?"  
The woman smiled wickedly before responding.  
"Why? Were you hoping to perform some business with them?  
"Sissel!"  
"You need more sleep, your mood is depressing to me. They left."  
"Why?" the woman was confused.  
"The Priest wouldn't help them. He said that the baby required his attention. He probably didn't want to help strangers, they left to go to the next village. They have a healer there, they said. They thanked us though. Now excuse me...I have to go wash the tables."  
She watched Sissel leave, then sighed. Today would be a normal day. Dropping her hand to her side, she was startled to feel a lump in her pocket. Reaching into it, she drew in a sharp intake of breath, for she held in her hand a symbol of Odin.  
  
**  
  
The woman looked over the field, placing a hand over her large stomach. She was married now, to a rich old man who had favored her in the tavern, and had requested her to fill his bed as his wife. An ironic grin curved her lips. Now he got her for free. At least he thought he did. She lightly fingered the gold chain around her throat. She had several like this, her gifts to herself. The woman felt it was only right, for she had to endure him, but she never showed them to the old man she had married herself to. When he woke up in the bed they shared, she would always scold him for drinking to much and using to much gold. The old man feared she was angry with him, so he always bought her expensive bits of jewelry and swore never to drink again, which he promptly forgot at night.   
He had moved them to the land near Midgard's border, being the greedy man he was, for the land was cheap, and fairly fertile. They lived in ever present danger though. She smiled as she felt a kick inside her, then frowned slightly. He didn't mind the constant threat, but she did. She wanted a safe place for her child, closer to the other Norse. The soon-to-be-mother knew it was only a certain amount of time before they were invaded by the greedy Brit's. How she loathed the Brits, for what they did to her in the past and what they would do to her in the future.  
The sky was darkening, and the woman narrowed her eyes. Her husband would probably entertain himself at the small village's tavern. Ever since her stomach began to swell, he started to stay at the small tavern until morning. He was estatic when she announced to him she was pregnant, more for the reason that it meant he was not impotent yet, then the reason that he would now have a child. She sneered slightly at that memory and their exchange before turning to her cottage where she would sleep alone.   
  
It was night when they came, dark and smelling of evil. The old man had collapsed on her, exhausted with his unfruitful efforts, drool starting to run down his chin and drip onto her face, lit up with fear. She moved slightly, testing to see how deep in slumber where he was. He didn't notice the movement. Before the next drip of his spit could touch her face, she pushed him off her and wrapped a robe over her shivering body. She threw a disgusted glance over at him before entering into the room that held their son. He to had noticed something too, and was wide awake, though he made no noise. She smiled as she picked him up and held him to her chest. He was so smart. She was about to put him back down when she heard some muttering coming from the house door. She froze for a moment, then still clutching her son to her chest, she ran, as quietly as he could to the cupboard where her old man stashed all his old Viking equipment. She grabbed his thick axe with her one hand, carrying it with ease, and his large shield. Something bad was coming.   
She had fled into the back room, locking the door behind her, when they entered. Yelling in a language she could not understand, they barged in, and she could hear them tearing the house apart, the crashing of her bowls onto the floor, and the breaking of her furniture. Her son was getting distressed and she could sense that he wanted to cry his befuddlement, yet he stayed silent. He was so smart.   
The woman clutched the axe in her hand, trying to get a feel for the large weapon. She crouched on the floor, praying to Odin for his help and sending a prayer to Hel to ready her soul for the road. She heard the sound of metal against skin and bone, and she knew that her old man was dead. The once-wife didn't feel any sorrow however, if only a litle for the fact that the father of her son was dead. At least the supposed father of her son.  
She heard the Brit's outside her door, muttering to each other in that awful language of theirs. They were almost past it when she heard them stop and try to open it. At its refusal to do so, their curiosity was piqued and in their battle lust they started to cleave at it with their swords. The woman got up to her full height, and readied herself. When one of the Brit's stuck his thickhead into the door, to try to see if he could see anything, his brothers-in-arms were shocked to see the body of him fall back unto them, the head chopped off in a single stroke. An archer was the first to regain his thoughts about him, and he sent an arrow into the darkness, and with the sound of a grunt of pain it broke the other Brit's back to their senses.   
The now warrior grunted as the arrow struck her chest, put didn't penetrate her cloth. Her confidence rose greatly after this, and she gave her own war cry, her thanks and praise to Odin and as the first Brits charge in on her she swung her axe, cleaving several of the foolhardy in half. With the demise of the first group, the second held back, sending arrows into the darkness, while others attempted to get a fire started to light their way. Herself, she was safe behind a wall, but she had forgot about the place her son lay. As he wailed in pain, her eyes flashed with fear and shock. With the silence afterwards she went mad with rage. The Brit's had killed her son. All reasoning left her as she charge into the group of Brits, her axe flying around her, her shield blocking the sides of the delicately made swords with the force of a seasoned Viking warrior. The woman had no armor though, and she soon felt blood running down her arms and back as swords found her weakpoint and relished in the feel of skin as they bit into her. She felt nothing though, for she saw her son, dead now, and wandering alone in death. She would avenge him. The warrior raised her voice, sending her wail of pain and anger to the heaven's, punctuated with the sound metal against skin, or the clashing of metal unto metal.   
Suddenly she stopped and gasped in pain. She looked down and saw the wicked point of a sword through her chest. She felt a sudden pain as her battle lust and madness left her, and she fell down to the floor, mouthing the words to a death chant. Pain clouded her sight, and though swords pierced her skin she would not die. She gained her voice back through the pain and voiced the last words to the chant loudly, the tone calm, and free from the pain. Then she left this world.  
She blinked. The warrior was standing outside a large eating hall, the sounds of eating and chatter reaching her ears as she watched the people. They were dressed in warrior's garb, glistening with its newness and flashing with its grandness. Her felt her own body and felt the hardness of armor. She looked at her hands and saw an axe of unrivaled power and a shied of made of the strongest metals. She was in a daze when she noticed a tall, and very handsome Viking standing before her, and smiling slightly in greeting. She gasped.  
"Hello, Mother." Her now grown son said, bowing low. Tousled blonde hair danced slightly with that movement, blue eyes lit up with happiness?  
"My son? What? Why are you here?" She asked, her mouth slightly ajar.  
"I took him here." a voice sounded behind the stunned woman, the voice demanding nothing, but it was a voice none could deny. She turned and saw the face of the warrior she had helped long ago in the tavern.   
"He was untried, and he was of your blood. You who helped me in my moment of great pain. You who gave me enough to allow myself a peaceful death. I was in your debt, and I needed to help you in your moment of great pain. Your son is safe with in the halls of Asgard, until the final day is upon us."  
She smiled and bowed her head in thanks, but she still had another question to ask this woman.  
"I thank you greatly, she of the bravest blood, but I wonder as to why I am here?"  
The valkyrie looked troubled for a moment, and was about to answer when a deep voice sounded behind her.  
"You are here, for you are to receive my blessing, to become one of my chosen. Receive it in honor." rumbled the voice. The shivering woman wanted to turn around, to see the face of the god, but she dared not. he could feel his radiance, his power unto her back. She knew her eyes could not bear the sight of him. She felt a sudden weight upon her shoulder, and a sudden heat running throughout her body, followed by an icy chill. It raced throughout her body, coursing through her veins until it focused on her chest, where the emblem of Odin lay, combining into a burning ice, before fading into nothingness. She opened her eyes, she hadn't realized she had clamped them shut and looked around with wonder. She felt no different, yet she knew she was.  
The valkyrie smiled at her, a smile laced with happiness, and tinged with sadness. She didn't understand the sadness part, and she took a step forward, to greet the valkyrie. She was stopped by an outraised hand.  
"You have been blessed, Asvora. You must now prove yourself worthy of Odin's eye and gift. You revenged your son, and blessed his parting into this world, and now you must now go back into yours.", the valkyrie paused a moment, to allow this to sink in, "When I carried your son to the Halls of Asgard, and gave to him the knowledge and the age he would never have known, I have refilled my debt unto you. To help you more, I can not do."  
"I'll be waiting for you Mother."  
Pain. Utter pain. She wanted to cry out for help, yet no sound could echo through her mouth. Why couldn't she die? Asvora remembered the Halls of Asgard with remorse and longing. They were so warm, so comfortable... Pain. She moaned.  
She didn't know where the next words out of her mouth came from. She was never taught them, nor had she ever heard them. They just flowed out of her mouth.   
At first she couldn't feel anything different in the amount of pain she felt. If anything she felt more, for unknown to her, she was regaining the blood she had lost, and her skin was growing to cover up her many wounds. Soon though, she became aware of the heavy stench of death in the room, and the quietness of the house. The remaining Brit's must have left to raid the village. As long as they didn't come back any time soon, she didn't care. She never cared much for the villiagers anyways.   
She moaned silently, and raised herself slightly. She felt badly bruised, and very, very tired. Asvora swaggered unto the bloody bed, and sank down into it. She yelped in sudden pain, for something was digging into her back. Reaching a bruised hand behind her back, she drew out Odin's symbol which she had found a few years back. It was slick with blood. She peered closer and ran her fingers over it. The woman found a deep knick in it, like one a sword thrust would make. She paused a moment, then raised her head up to look at her chest, where she remembered there once being a sword sliced through. Pale, perfect skin greeted her eyes, virgin to the touch of a blade, unlike the other parts of her body. She glanced at her arms, scars running up and down them, and growled, wanting to curse the Brits for what they did to her. She was stopped though when a sudden wave of weariness swept her up, and she welcomed the darkness, falling into such a deep sleep that she hadn't had for days.   
She would need the rest when she went after the Britons who killed her son.   
  
  
***  
  
The bard smiled slightly, her tale finished, yet she played on while the imaginations of the Norse finished the tale. Many of the warriors in the tavern had gotten back recently from a raid that went horribly wrong against the Brits. Undoubtedly, Asvora would avenge her son's death tenfold, and perhaps her husband's as well. Perhaps, someday, she would tell them what really happened to Asvora.   
With the last note of the bard's song drifting through out the tavern, the occupants eventually woke up from their daydreaming, to look around, startled at the sudden disappearance of the skald.   
The door swung silently.   
  
  



	2. Asvora: Trials of the Valkyrie

She scanned the crowd.  
It was somewhat larger then the one of the previous night, not a whole lot, not enough for a large increase in the noise, yet somehow the noise seemed to be double. It was the gift of the Norse, she mused. One of many.  
The Bar Keeper was happy. That much she could see. It was unlikely that he would give her any part of the profit that he would gain tonight. He was a businessman, a shrewd one, who had fought long and hard against the price she asked. He would be happy now. His coffers would be refilled gloriously.  
She glanced at the sky outside. The sun was slowly lowering herself into her bed, her bright colors filling up the cloaked woman's eyes. How she longed for her words to be as vibrant as the colors seen outside. She sighed and turned back towards the crowd. Anticipation echoed throughout the room, and she had felt it. Perhaps, it was now time.   
Her fingers dipped into the case by her feet, and drew out the lyre, her weapon.  
"Lleana..." she whispered, longingly, hopefully inciting the lyre to help her when she weaves her tale. She runs her hand over the age-rendered smooth oaken handle before starting full force into her song of enticement.  
The song wound its way through the throng of Norse, circling the throats of the each one, and silencing the words they wanted to speak to each other. It drew their attention to the woman sitting in her corner, and when she opened her mouth, she held them in the palm of her hand.  
And so she started.  
  
***  
  
Her eyes opened and she stared at the wall in the dimly lit room. Out of habit she flung her hand over to the other side of the bed. She didn't notice the scars upon her arm  
It was empty. She moved her hand downwards, a frown appearing on her face as it struck something sticky. She grimaced as she felt something cold, limp, and soft underneath her questing fingers. It was then that the stench reached her nostrils, and with the smell came her memories of the previous night.  
The smell of rot was soon mixed with the smell of vomit.  
She had to get out. The smell was overriding her senses, clouding her thoughts. Asvora rolled out of bed and planted her feet firmly on the floor. At least she thought it was the floor.  
When she looked down she wished it had been the floor.  
She blanched. A man's arm had been flung to her bedside from her mad rampage from the night before. It was cold, a deathly blue, and underneath her feet it felt disgustingly squishy. Her feet quickly left the human footstool.  
With a quickly beating heart, Asvora slowly raised her eyes and nearly blanched again. Bodies were scattered across the room, mutilated by the swings of the axe, but it wasn't them she cared about.  
"My son...my son...." she whispered, her voice husky with grief.  
She ran into the room where she had lay hidden the night before. Light was seeping into the room, giving the once-mother enough light to see by. How she wished that it was dark, for the sight of his cold shell of a body, rid of the soul she had loved so much nearly sent her mad with grief again. He was the only person she had been able to talk to, and now she was alone...She was so Lonely.  
A strangled cry escaped her throat, as she rushed towards her son, sweeping him up into her scarred arms and tossing his death arrow aside. She gave him her breast wishing he would awaken from his sleep to suckle. Her mind was crying "No, you are a fool, Asvora. He is dead...", while her heart cried louder "He is only in deep sleep. When he awakes he will be hungry..." Asvora felt no comforting pressure and so the tears came.  
She hadn't cried for years. Her life had hardened her, and she had been taught that tears would accomplish nothing, her life would not prove easier. The last time she cried was when she realized Daddy wouldn't be coming home. Daddy. Her Daddy.  
She didn't even know his name, for he had left when she was young. Her mother never mentioned it to her, nor did her neighbors say anything about him to her. She simply knew him as Her Daddy, with his ticklish beard and twinkling eyes. His arms sweeping her into a big bear hug. The sounds of his running behind her as he chased her. Her Daddy.  
Daddy had left to go on a raid on the Brits. He had been told the spoils would be well worth it. The year had been rough on her family, for disease had swept through the herds, killing them off. Mother had begged him not to go, but he went anyways. He was to proud to ask for help from his good friends. Daddy hadn't returned, and mother began to be worried. She took up any jobs, working herself hard to prepare themselves for winter. She got sick, and then Hel took her.   
Asvora cradled the cold limp body, salty tears moistening it as the memories came back from a time she wished to forget. She had been left all alone after then, with little money to her name. There was only one job open to her and she took it. She achieved womanhood sooner then most.  
She set her son on her lap, bending her head to look at him, causing a cascade of gold tumbling over her shoulders. A shaking finger ran over the whole of him. She wanted to remember him.  
The blood around his wound was dry. The cold night must have swept away all moisture. Her finger ran over it, feeling the roughness of it, watching it flake. She paused a moment before she picked up one of the larger flakes. Raising it to her face, she set it unto her tongue. It moistened and she swallowed.  
She had been part of him, and now he was part of her.  
Rising up then, clutching her son, she walked out the rooms. Her eyes glanced towards the bed where her once-husband lay. His body was mangled beyond all recognition. Bodies lay scattered around the bed, a moat of death and blood. Asvora sneered at them, her heart cold to them. They would be shunned, and they would go unnamed, unpurified, into Hel's cold embrace.  
She spat onto the ground with her son clung close to her breast, and then she left the room. Her son, he would get a proper warrior burial, for did she not see him in the Halls of Asgard? His body was sacred.  
Asvora passed through the common rooms without a glance at the destruction. her thoughts were focused on the burial that she must now prepare for. Her son had no symbol of the honor he had. She had hers though. Perhaps that would suffice.  
There was a soft thud on the ground below. She frowned slightly, wondering what could have fallen. The frown soon disappeared however, for what greeted her eyes mad her smile. It was obvious that the gods figured that her valkyrie symbol would not suffice. He must have the symbol of the thane.  
She had all she needed now.  
  
**  
  
Behind her fires cackled gleefully at the dead it encompassed. The flames rose high, as if reaching towards the Halls to send the dead there. Only one flame would succeed.  
Asvora knew she should have let the wolves feed upon the Britons. A pack was nearby, she had heard them. Yet, wolves were sacred to her now, and they did not deserve to become so tainted by the blood of the Britons. So, she had done what she could to make sure they did not. A loud crack of the house's timber echoed throughout the quiet forest, its heat hot on her back. She didn't like the fact that her son's burial was so like the burial of the dogs who killed him, but there was nothing she could do. She sent her curses with the lighting of the house, and her blessings to her son. Her work there was done.  
Asvora clutched the worn coat closer to her body. Even though it was almost summer the nights were freezing. Her shield and sword clanked noisily together. It scared away any animal, and for that she was thankful, but it brought any human that was out there to her in curiosity.  
She shivered. It was doubtful she could defeat a band of British Dogs now. She felt that she was freezing to death.  
It had been a couple of days since she had awaken to the carnage. Her feet ached badly. She was use to riding is she had to go anywhere. She rarely rode. Asvora sniffled slightly as the cold chilled her nose. The town should be close now. She didn't know why she had to live so far away. He, her husband, had said that the land was better. It was more likely the land was cheaper.  
The moon was bright tonight.  
Suddenly she felt a sharp pain as something struck her head. She blacked out.  
Yes. The moon had been bright tonight.  
  
*  
  
"'Ere's `nother one milord. Caught `er in the woods near the village."  
"Set her in the wagon with the others"  
"Yes, milord."  
  
"Finally...a pretty one. D'ye know just how many old hags I've had to have on this raid?"  
"Dun ye think that the lord would want `er? There may be a reason she's been untouched..."  
"If she's been `lone this long, I can't see a reason why not to..."  
"Well...Alright then. Just dun ruin `er `nough so I can't use `er."  
"Now John, even if I bust `er, I'm sure ye will still fit."  
"WHAT?!"  
"Twas a joke John. All in good `umor..."  
"Did ye just insult me? Yew, `hoo ran away from an' ol' woman?!"  
"I tol' ye before...She was a jabbering spells a' me....!"  
"Ye ol' liar!"  
"WHAT?! Me?! A liar?!"  
"I said i' once an' I'll say i' again..."  
"Ye're a dead man John..."  
"None mo' `en yeu!"  
  
"Ah! A lady in deep slumber...What D-ye think will awaken her...Sir Robert?"  
"Hmmm...Well, Brian, if she was merely dozing, I would suggest that applying a slight pressure upon her lips. But, that would not work here. Listen to the deep breaths she takes! I think that to open her...eyes, we must insert a key...  
"Sounds like that'll do it."  
"Oh aye. Worked for me many a time before."  
"Really, Robert?"  
"Aye Brian. And I am thinking that a big girl like her will need a big key."  
"Hm. Makes perfect sense to be Robert."  
"Thank-you, good-sir. Now if you'll just move aside...."  
"WHA-?!"  
"Robert! Brian!"  
"Wha' tis it, Kris?"  
"The `orses with the loot bags got spooked an' took off!"  
"What? The gold? Gone?!"  
"Aye!"  
"Well, men, we must go and save it!"  
  
*  
  
Asvora eyes fluttered open. Her head hurt. She cradled her head tenderly, but her eyes furrowed in confusion. Her hands were heavier. She didn't remember her arms being so heavy. In fact, she didn't remember them making a clanging sound with her every move. She glanced down at her arms and then let out a growl of anger at what greeted her eyes.  
Chains of solid metal chimed their happiness of keeping someone down whenever she moved. Bands of wrought iron weighed her arms down, and with that extra weight her heart dropped. She was captured and she didn't know what to do.  
Asvora looked at the poorly made walls surrounding her. The ceiling was low, perhaps only five feet, and poorly made. The walls easily let the sounds from outside in. Men calling, horses snorting, and a low rumble of wheels flooded her sense of hearing. She'd rather hear silence.   
Across the room there came a scrapping sound, approaching the weary woman. She looked down. Below her was a roughly made cup filled with a cool substance. It lay just within her reach. Asvora reached down and lifting it to her nose, she sniffed it.  
Willowbark tea.  
She had forgotten all about it, but in a flash her headache came back. Sniffing again, to make sure that was all that was in it, she gave a weak smile into the shadows, to whomever gave this to her. She drank it slowly, wishing that it could have been at least lukewarm. As it was, it was like drinking water fresh from the springs. It chilled her.  
She peered at the cup, now empty. It was strangely cut, not with a knife, but it looked like it was carved with...nails. Sharp ones.  
A faint rustle in the shadows alerted her to the presence of at least one other. Asvora peered into the shadows, but she saw nothing until a form came into the light.   
The woman blinked several times, for she was not sure she was seeing right. Herself, she had never seen one alive. They usually lived farther away from the Viking settlements, and didn't venture into them to trade.   
The female kobold blinked also, but it wasn't because she was surprised. A small, welcoming smile was inlaid on the kobold's thin lips.  
"Welcome back to the land of the living, young warrior" spoke the kobold, her voice full of shadows. It was enticing, and told of an honest person.  
"I am Skyshadow, shaman of the clan of the Fox."  
"And I am Asvora, val-"  
A sudden motion from the shaman silenced the words in Asvora's mouth. Skyshadow made an apologetic gesture, and then crept as close to the sitting woman as the chains would allow. A light humming noise filled the valkyrie's ears.  
"Do you hear that? It is the sound of magic, the magic in my chains. I used some spells on the dogs outside before that caught me. They were smart enough to make sure I couldn't curse them again." Skyshadow whispered quietly, making sure that the outside noises would cover up the talk going inside the wagon, "But, they saw only your shield and sword. They view you only as a warrior, a mundane person. They are nothing more then stupid dogs who couldn't comprehend the symbol upon your breast. I know who you are though." the shaman grinned again, mouthing the next words so no one could hear her. "Handmaiden of Odin."  
Asvora felt a slight rush of pride at the silent words. A valkyrie was she. And as one, she could channel the god's will...  
"Why do you whisper, great shaman? I do not understand the dogs, and so why should they understand us?"   
Skyshadow made a slight clucking sound in her throat before answering.   
"The dogs were smart enough to bring one among them who understands our tongue. He-"  
The shaman was about to say something more, when there was a knock at the door. Skyshadow grinned wide this time, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. Asvora felt it was odd that one of the dogs would have the decency to knock.  
"You may enter, Haslett, and welcome."  
At the shaman's permission, the door swung open, and in jumped a boy. The valkyrie was startled, for she did had not thought that the Brit's would have brought a young boy. He could not be more then 16, for his form was still lanky, and his face was beardless. She grinned slightly as his face became a little red when he climbed in, a great feat in itself, for the door was small and the wagon was moving.   
"I hope you no mind my presence. Men outside boring." he said. Asvora felt that he spoke it well, though it was broken. She smiled at him, and she thought he got redder.  
"I am Asvora, and I take it you are Haslett?" she asked, wanting to try out the unusual name.  
Haslett brightened slightly, and grinned.  
"I welcome you Asvora."  
The chains around Asvora lightly chimed together, and she frowned slightly.  
"Is this how you welcome everyone, you British dogs?!" she asked, her voice an angry whisper.  
Haslett paled slightly, while Skyshadow clucked her tongue in disapproval.  
"Asvora, hold not the boy responsible for what the men do. It is he who brought the willowbark tea, and he will help us."  
"Help us?"  
Skyshadow looked over at Haslett, with a look that said something silently that only he could understand. He pursed his lips slightly and then looked straight at Asvora.  
"I help you escape." he answered very softly.  
The woman froze. Escape? She had almost resigned herself to go wherever the Brits would take her. She had thought that this was a test of Odin's, a very horrible test. Yet now, perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps she would not have to stay in this cramped wagon any longer.  
"How can a boy help us?" Asvora questioned the shaman, forgetting her manners.  
"He has helped you already Asvora. Why do you think that you have remained untouched this long?" Skyshadow retorted quietly, her dark eyes focused on Asvora with slight concern. "It is not because they do not want to."  
Asvora almost paled, but caught herself. Instead she calculated the boy sitting near her, her pale eyes resembling shards of ice. It took her mind off things.  
He was short. At least he was shorter then her. Perhaps just underneath 6 feet. She paused a moment, remembering her own people who were tall. He could pass for a short Viking. His hair was bleached blonde, and his eyes were a dark blue. His face was slightly angular, making it more feminine then most male faces she saw. A hand lightly touched her own chin, feeling the sharpness of it. She was unusual among her people, for her features were sharper then most Norse. Haslett was lanky, not yet filled out with the muscles that most Viking youths have at his age. He smiled shyly underneath her hard gaze, and it was then that she froze. It was the smile she had often seen on her son. Her son. She bit her lip and looked away. Tears would prove useless now, so why did they want to come?  
"Haslett, how...how did you come about learning our language?" she asked, wanting to steer her thoughts away from the dead.   
"Our...priests, monks, like learning. Big Curiosity of other people. Want learn Viking culture. Need learn language. Capture Viking, learn language. I allowed learn. I proud." He said, his chest swelling with pride.  
"Why where you with the monks? Did your parents want you there?"  
Haslett's eyes became rather misty, and his lips became pursed hard, trying to remain a strong man and not cry.  
"Parents gone. Leave me orphan. Go monks learn. No need money."  
Outside, a man hollered, and Asvora could hear the sound of Haslett's name echoing throughout the wagon and the forest. She hadn't noticed it before, but the wagon had stopped and the noises of making camp sounded. The boy paled visibly, his eyes were full of fear. He nodded a goodbye to the two women, seemingly to shaken to say anything else. He took a deep breath and then left the wagon.  
Skyshadow looked outside and saw the sky darkening as another day passed and another night came. The shaman was obviously worried about something, but Asvora didn't understand what. She closed her eyes and listened to the outside noises. She needn't have focused so much.  
There was a loud rumble of British voices, and she could hear them coming closer. The shaman was breathing harder, and suddenly motioned to Asvora to get her attention.  
"We need to escape now, else you will be handmaiden to Odin no more, and we will both be in the dogs hands to use. I need you to get these chains off me, Asvora." the voice was calm, yet the eyes spoke of fear.  
Asvora looked at the seemingly thin banes of magic that circled the shaman's hand, and at the thick ones that surrounded her. She flipped her wrists over to look at the lock. All it needed was a key. She looked around for one, but the shaman hissed and shook her head.   
"It would not work. Set me free, and I will take the chains off you."   
Asvora narrowed her eyes at the shaman. It was obvious that Skyshadow knew what to do, but she wasn't going to tell. Asvora glanced at the corner where her sword and shield lay, far enough away that she would not be able to reach them, if she remained chained. She looked back to where the chains were fastened to the most well built part of the wall. Asvora yanked hard, and the wall groaned. She yanked again, and she thought she heard the timber start to crack.  
"You will not get the wall down in time if you do that."  
Asvora hissed, and focused on her arms, willing them to be stronger, more powerful. She felt a surge of energy race through her veins, and she tugged again, with all her might.   
A loud splitting noise in the wagon, stopped the low rumble of British talk, but it didn't stop the motion of Asvora. With two solid movements she grabbed her sword and swung downward with the blade, channeling her will into the wrought iron as the gods channeled their power through her. The blade sang its song as it sliced the air, and with a bell-like chime it cut through one band of iron, and with another stroke it struck the other and broke it. In both cases the blade had stopped before the skin on the shaman's wrists were pierced, by the gods' will she supposed.  
Skyshadow turned quickly to face the sound of the British voices, who were now yelling, and with the opening of the door she unleashed a spell, screeching at Asvora to shut her eyes.  
Screams of pain replaced the yells of anger. Asvora, whose eyes had been tightly shut, felt her eyes being seared in the bright flash of light. She too, yelled out of agony. It took a few moments for her to feel safe enough to open her eyes, and when she did, she saw the little kobold holding up a key.  
"Hurry!"  
Asvora obeyed, grabbing the keys offered to her. Trying several before one fit, she unlocked the bands from her wrists, and with their clanging unto the ground, she massaged her wrists, glad to feel warm skin where there was once iron.  
"No time, no time...Hurry, Hurry!"  
The kobold tugged at Asvora's worn clothes and dragged her towards the door. It was the first time Asvora had a good look outside in a couple of days. Men were laying upon the ground, screaming their pain and their curses at the little witch in the wagon. Asvora thought she saw a slight smirk on the kobold's face, but Asvora didn't understand what the men were screaming. It was just as well.  
A pounding of hooves alerted Asvora to the approach of another, and she raised her sword, ready to kill the man who escaped the shaman's spell. A small hand held her sword down though, and the small shaman was shaking her head, clucking her tongue.  
"It is better to look and see before you attack blindly. You would have killed Haslett."   
The shaman looked over at the young boy, tugging three British horses behind him. They were taller and seemed more slender then the horses she was used to. Asvora hoped they could carry her.  
The three of them said nothing to each other as they each mounted a horse. The kobold took the smallest and oldest of the three, Haslett a placid bay mare, and Asvora mounted the largest of the three, a dark chestnut, fiery, stallion.   
It had been perhaps a minute since the spell had been ushered from the shaman's mouth, but already some of the men were recovering, stumbling towards the nearest horse in order to chase them. The shaman saw this, and with a final look thrown over her shoulder, she cursed them with slowness, channeling her will to aid her in this spell. Shouts of frustration came from the dog's mouths and she grinned again before taking off after Asvora and Haslett. She couldn't help feeling however, eyes somewhere watching her. It sent shivers down her back.  
They galloped till their horses were worn down, the distance made even greater by the shaman's spell of quickness. By then the only light there was the light of the moon, which was just beginning another turn. The shaman had summoned another spell, this one producing light equal to a torch from the feathers she wore around her arms. She had given one feather to both Haslett and Asvora, for they needed no injuries at this time. The group of three had been traveling in silence, until Asvora decided to break it.  
"Haslett, can you lead us back to where you captured us...?"   
"Could if in Midgard. Good memory, have I."  
Asvora blanched, though no one could see it in the night light.  
"What do you mean `if we were in Midgard'? Aren't we?"  
The deeper voice of the shaman answered Asvora's question.  
"No, Asvora. We are in Albion, the land that gave birth to the dogs we call the Brits. Sorry Haslett."  
Asvora paled again. She could see the farm where she lived, the inn where she had earned her living, the house where she had died, and had risened again, renewed. The place where her son had died, and the place where he was buried. Asvora broke down.  
Ohhh...Her son...  
"My son...My son..."  
  
***  
  
The cloaked woman grinned slightly at the anger that resounded in the voices of her listeners. Her tale had the effect she wanted it to have on them. She played Lleana for a few more minutes, making them remember the woe of Asvora, implanting it unto their memory. Perhaps they would bring more listeners to hear the tale of this valkyrie. To listen to the bard who they did not know the name of. The bars whose name they could not know.  
Newcomers were entering the bar now, disrupting the mood of slight contemplation she had kept the Norse in. It was just as well. Thinking was not a past time the Norse liked to do a whole lot.  
The lyre's song changed from one of contemplation to one of merrieness and drunkeness. The mood immidatly lifted with the song of the music, and the bar once more began to serve the beer it had wanted to.  
It was late into the night, perhaps even near morning when she left. Men were laying halfway on the tables, the low rumble of snores echoing throughout the wooden room. Another regular night, another regular morning.  
She opened the door and welcomed the fresh air.  
  
  



	3. Asvora: Escape of the Valkyrie

The bard entered the tavern that she had woven her tales for the past two nights, blinking to get use to the dim light. She tugged the hood over her head, making sure no one could see her face, even if they looked directly at her. The tavern's chatter had quieted down when she had entered. Well known now, was she, at least among the tavern's regulars. Those whom she did not recognize talked amongst themselves for a few minutes before quieting down. Impatient looks at those few by the waiting regulars succeeded in quieting the tavern down better then her harp could. She smiled underneath the shadow of her hood as she made her way over to her usual corner. It was good to feel so welcomed.  
Delicate fingers reached inside her cloak to draw out the wooden lyre, and the anticipation rose visibly in the room. She did not start her tale right away. No, instead she played a summary of the story past, allowing the regulars to remember and the newcomers to learn. She paused a moment, the last note she played ringing throughout the room, before opening her mouth for the first time that night.   
  
  
***  
  
"Asvora," the shaman's voice cracked the woman's shell of surrounding grief, bringing her back to the present dire conditions. "Do you mean to tell us that you have a son?"  
"Had."  
"He's gone then?  
"Killed."  
"By whom?"  
"Brits."  
The shaman muttered something underneath her breath, and left the subject drop for now. She would ask Asvora again sometime though, perhaps when they were back in Midgard. Back into relative safety.  
"Haslett, this is your country, no?" questioned Skyshadow, turning her attention to the boy. He seemed rather nervous, she noted. So was she, but she hid it with a shaman's confidence.  
"Don't travel here much. In north. Near Midlands. Live southeast, nearer to cities. Nearer to safety. Midlands not safe. Danger." he answered, his voice quiet, for he feared he would attract unwanted attention. Bedtime stories meant to scare were often placed in "The Midlands". He shuddered slightly.  
The shaman grunted her agreement, and she shuddered also, though hers was from the coldness. At least most of it was.  
"We need some wood for a fire." She stated to no one in particular, but her dark eyes glanced significantly at Haslett, and she arched an eyebrow in silent inquiry.  
"I'll...go...get...some..." Haslett answered, his voce quiet, as if full of fear. He grasped his feather of light and headed into the darkening forest.  
Skyshadow watched him leave, making sure he did leave, before turning back to the sagging woman who focused too much on things in the past.  
"Asvora. Did your horse have any food in the saddle bags?"  
"I don't think so."  
"Check and make sure. I really don't think you would want to hunt tonight, no?"  
Asvora didn't say anything, but rose quietly to her feet and walked over to the grazing stallion. She hadn't taken the saddle off, and the stallion had been to ravished to try to scrape it off his back. Ears flicked towards her, but the chestnut did nothing else. Asvora smiled slightly, and dug her hand into the saddle pack. Questing fingers felt several smooth bottles, all heavy with whatever substances they carried. Pulling out one whose color was a dark murky brown, she popped off the cork, but when she got a whiff of the liquid inside, she wished she hadn't. In retaliation to the stench, she pulled her arm back, getting ready to throw the foul substance into the woods. A wicked breeze brought a second whiff to her nostrils and she nearly gagged. How foul...how very-  
"Stop!"  
The kobold darted remarkably quickly to where Asvora now stood, her hands held outwards, asking silently for the bottle, dark eyes filled with disapproval. Asvora gingerly handed the bottle to her, a blonde eyebrow arched in inquiry.  
"It smelt like very strong vinegar. Very bad vinegar"  
Skyshadow clucked her tongue a couple of times, letting Asvora know her displeasure without saying anything. Clutching the bottle in her hand, she stooped down low and tossed a few drops of liquid onto some blades of grass. Asvora couldn't be sure, for the light was dimming fast, but she thought that she saw the few blades get a bit greener. The shaman nodded, as if she expected so much. Raising herself up to her short height, she then dipped a gnarled finger into the elixir, then let a single drop fall onto her tongue. She waited a few seconds before saying anything into the waiting silence.  
"I could care less what it smells like. I prefer to know what it tastes like and-"  
"But-"  
"It tastes like honeyed wine. It would have been a pity if you would have thrown this away."  
"Why?"  
"Daft girl. Do you know nothing of potions? This is a very powerful healing potion, masked by a scent so that anyone else who picked it up would throw it away." The shaman paused again and side-glanced at Asvora with evident annoyance. "Like you nearly did."  
"Oh."   
It was the only response Asvora could think of. Her eyebrows furrowed a moment, before reaching into the saddle bag once more and taking out the rest of the bottles. Opening one of similar color to the one the shaman held, she was about to dip her finger into it when it was suddenly knocked out of her hand. Asvora gasped and glared at the shaman for but a moment. A moment was all she had before she heard a sizzling sound coming from the ground where the smashed bottle lay. She paled slightly and looked down to find a patch of dirt at her feet where there was once grass.  
"Hmph. Thought as much." Skyshadow remarked through pursed lips.   
"The Brits don't seem to be of a very trusting nature."  
"When you venture so close to your enemies border, it is considered wise to use whatever means possible to make sure that the enemy does not get anything good if you are killed. Especially now."  
"Oh?"  
"Have you not heard about what happened in Albion recently? Do you not pay attention at all to what is going on in the other Realms?"  
"No." Asvora wasn't going to say anything more, but when she saw the frank disapproval the shaman regarded her in, she went on. "I was locked in the cage called my husband's home for the past 10 winters. I rarely went out and rarely let anyone in. It was total isolation until the Brits came." she paused a moment to force memories to the back of her mind. "And then I was captured. I had no time to ask someone what had been happening."  
The old kobold arched an eyebrow, and Asvora thought that she saw a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.  
"You have much to learn then I suppose."   
With that she sat down and closed her eyes, clearly indicating that she did not want to be disturbed with any more questions.   
Asvora sighed and sat down near the shaman, focusing her attentions on the piece of forest that Haslett had gone into. She hadn't thought that gathering wood took so long.   
It felt like hours, but she knew it was only a few minutes when she heard a loud cracking of a fallen tree branch. She stiffened slightly and moved into a position that would allow her to stand easily, tense with anticipation. Her muscles soon relaxed though, for Haslett appeared from out of the brushes and into their clearing, carrying an armful of wood.   
"I got lost on my way back." he muttered quietly as his excuse, setting himself down to get the fire started.  
"No you didn't."  
Haslett tensed, so much that it was visible in the moonlight. His eyes darted to where the shaman sat, meeting her eyes for a second before looking back down to do his work. Skyshadow's was unreadable, but Asvora felt a sense of uneasiness descend over the camp.   
It didn't bode well.  
  
*  
  
They spent a week like this, in shadowed existence. Haslett had found some rations in his saddlepack, but those fed them only for two days. After that, Asvora had to hunt.  
It wasn't because she was the best hunter. She hadn't had to hunt much, for she usually had a ready animal in her yard when she lived with her once-husband. The kobold, however, had years of experience, but she was to old to hunt. Besides, she stated, she had foregone the physical path to tread the path that would aid her reach for full shamanic power.  
Asvora had managed to catch a few rabbits and foxes in the traps she set at night when they made camp. Crude little things that often collapsed under their own weight. They did get the job done though, and the three of them never got too hungry. At least none of them went mad due to lack of food.  
The valkyrie sighed again and rocked to the horse's movement, chewing on the leaf of some plant to help ease her hunger. She didn't get close to going mad because of hunger, but because of something else. Haslett was a growing boy, whose stomach she was beginning to compare with a void. He was constantly hungry and never full. He nearly drove both the women mad.  
"I am beginning to think that having Haslett along is not such a good thing." Asvora sighed as she looked over at the pile of picked clean bones. Haslett had left to go find some more wood. Her lips pursed slightly at the small fire sitting in between the shaman and the valkyrie. It wasn't very big, but by her judgement it would last them the night that they were at this spot. She shrugged to herself.   
"He is a growing boy." Skyshadow answered, her voice seeming to be distant. She sat opposite of the valkyrie, and through the fire that lay between them, she looked much more powerful. Mysterious.  
Asvora half-smiled. The shaman had a way of tracing her thoughts. Or at least Asvora's eyes.  
"I understand he may be hungry, and I do not mind hunting. It is good practice."  
"So why do you go so far in suggesting that we should not enjoy his company any more?"  
Asvora snorted.   
"Enjoy his company? The only thing I know about him is that his name is Haslett. I know nothing of his father, or of his mother, or anything of his past life."   
"You do not know anything of mine. Does that mean you have no wish to be in my presence anymore?" the shaman had the I-know-something-but-I-am-not-going-to-tell-you-what-it-is-until-you-guess-it tone of voice. Whatever it was that the shaman knew about Haslett, Asvora felt it was not good, for Skyshadow's voice was monotone, and devoid of any emotion.  
"Of course not. But...but...you are at least are in alliance with me. Haslett is a Brit and...and I do not trust where his allegiances lie."   
Asvora thought she saw a sudden spark in the shaman's eyes but it was probably just the fire.  
Skyshadow looked up at the sky for a brief moment, before staring intently at Asvora. She knew that the old kobold was trying to tell her something, but what it was, she couldn't discern.  
"The moon has moved to much since the time Haslett has last seen the light of our fire. Perhaps you should go out and look for him."  
The valkyrie blinked, glancing at Skyshadow for a long moment before letting out a sigh, muttering her agreement, and rising up. She grabbed one of the feathers the shaman had enchanted before turning to the darkness of the forest.  
"...Asvora?..."  
"Hmm?"  
"...I would advise you to walk as quietly as you can, and to keep the light underneath your cloak." the shaman paused a moment, before offering an excuse for this precaution. "There are many dangerous beasts out there who would not might having a late night feast."   
Asvora nodded her agreement again, then left the shaman's presence.  
  
*  
  
The forest had scared her at first. It was different from forests of her home, and it was a difference she could feel. Perhaps because she knew that in Midgard she was safe, and now she was in enemy territory.   
The trees had looked so much alike as well. She had gotten lost a few times, yet somehow she had found her way back. After a few days she started to gain skill at forest treading rapidly, and her step was quiet. Slow, but quiet.  
It was by accident that she stumbled unto the clearing. A had blocked her path, forcing her to go to either side of it. Taking the right hand side, she only had tread a couple hundred feet when she saw a dim light. Instantly in a crouch, she slowly approached, taking refuge behind a dense, but not too dense bush.   
The clearing was small, and easily lit by the fire in its center. It was empty but for two persons. One was tall in stature, arrogant in bearing, and unknown to her. The other was slightly shorter, but still to be considered tall, and his form was one that she knew.  
"When will you take them, Lord?"  
"In time. Perhaps when the moon is full."  
"Very good, Lord. I...I do not think I can stand eating like I do now much longer."  
The taller, older man, chuckled. Asvora didn't hear any humor in the laugh.  
"It is cooked, I take it?"  
A pause and the valkyrie figured that Haslett had made a disgusted face, for the man named, "Lord." laughed again.  
"It is well cooked, Lord, but totally lacking in any sort of flavor. Barbaric."  
"Hm. Well, I would consider you very lucky. From what I have been told, the Norse are wolves. They eat their meat raw, freshly torn from the carcass."  
Asvora supposed she should have felt anger at this jab at her people, but she could not. A pack of wolves was mighty and strong. Like the Norse. But, she pondered, a lone wolf is weak, and lonely for company. Not unlike her.   
"Milord, you told me...that...you would...give me something...to-"  
"I know very well what I told you." The man paused and looked up at the sky for a moment, then into the forest facing North. "We get too close to the Midlands border. Another few days at the pace you ride at and we will be past it."  
"Is there something happening in the Midlands, Lord?"  
"You are lucky that you have the excuse of travelling with ignorant Norse. Otherwise, your ears would be coming off and your eyes struck blind to make you truly ignorant to the world."  
Asvora couldn't see it, but by the way the man laughed, she guessed that Haslett had blanched.   
"The Norse are swarming over the Midlands. Our scouts have been there many times before, and have found nothing of value. We of the Brits have come to the conclusion that they are preparing an invasion, and the force of men I have with me are to small in number to deal with the amount of Norse the Scouts have reported to us."  
There was a pause before a sound of metal against leather echoed throughout the clearing, followed by a dim flash of light.  
"This is the Dagger of DragonFire. Forged in the heat of a dragon's breath, shaped by a hammer made of a dragon's claw, pounded to life on a bleached skull of those beasts. It is one of the Banes of Magic." The elder handed it to the younger with much care. Haslett grasped the handle gingerly, the pressed his thumb against the blade.  
"Its not sharp."  
A wave of anger overcame Asvora, and not from her. She saw the "Lord" tense, and Haslett cowering, mumbling his apologies and begging for forgiveness.  
"Get up, boy, and let me explain."  
"To any mortal the dagger is dull. It is something that in the forging of the Dagger, I could not overcome, no matter how long I spent shaping it. Thus, to any mundane human who happens to pick it up, it will be nothing more then a-." his voice grew full of disgust as he voiced the last three words."-glorified butter knife. But, to one whose veins flow with magic, it is deadly. The Dagger becomes sharp enough to cut through a thigh, bone and all. That is not the real power of it though. That is not the reason why I spent years preparing and forging it."  
The "Lord" paused in his explanation and drew something out of his coat. Muttering something over it, he threw it at the ground. A large log appeared in front of him..  
"A log." he paused to draw out a dagger. Asvora could see the light of the moon shine off it. "Now see, a regular dagger. Absolutely devoid of any and all magic." He knelt down and sliced at the log with such power that if he had held an axe, it would have cut it through. All that sounded though was a slight thunk. "It is useless. No regular dagger could cut through a log in a single stroke, agreed?." He didn't wait for an answer, for he took back the Dagger that lay in Haslett's hand, knelt down beside the log and carefully started to cut it. With placing minimum pressure on the dagger, it cut as easily as though the log was butter. That was odd, but not quite as odd as what happened to the log.  
When the blade first started to cut, at the first touch the log started to shrink.. With every inch the blade sliced through, the log grew smaller. So it shrank until it was nothing but a twig, and hidden from her sight.   
The man chuckled darkly as he bent down to grab the once-whole twig. Now split in two pieces he held them close to the boy's eyes, as if Haslett was nearly blind.  
"Do you see it, boy? The wood is seared, as if a flame touched it." His voice had been rising, but suddenly it dropped back down to his normal tone. "That isn't what is important though. What is the fact that it cut off the flow of magic through the wood. The log had been nothing but a twig until I made it become large. The magic that made it so flowed throughout the twig, keeping it from reverting back to its normal size. Yet, this Dagger stopped the flow. It seared the veins of magic!" the man's voice was arrogant and by the end of the explanation, extremely enthusiatic. Dangerously so.  
Wild eyes looked up at the moon again, and for a moment, it seemed that he would howl at it.  
The man is utterly mad.  
Disgusted beyond what she ever thought possible at this betrayal, as well as the insanity of the British wizard, Asvora carefully started to back away. Silence filled her ears until she was just in hearing range of the voices in the clearing.  
"Do it tonight boy. In the morning it will be too late."  
Asvora froze in midstep, her mind blank. Tonight? Skyshadow...  
She turned to head towards the camp, when she paused again. No. The knife he held in his hand would be fatal to the shaman and herself. She could flee, but honor held her to try to save the shaman. Skyshadow had saved her, so perhaps now she could repay her debt to the shaman. Would repay her debt.   
She turned again, for the final time, towards the way that Haslett would most likely run, when a scream in the direction of she was about to head sounded. A piercing scream, one that sounded from the throat of a young man. It wavered in the air, like a bird struggling in the air, before slowly sinking into silence. Asvora's heart beat furiously, fear freezing the blood in her veins. What had happened to Haslett?  
A bush moved in front of her, and Asvora bit her lip hard to keep the scream that threatened to echo through the forest in her throat. She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over her own feet in her fright as a bloodstained wolf's muzzle poked through the shrubs.  
"You are lucky that Freya discarded you. It would have proven interesting to see how a boar and some cats would have handled the situation that presented itself.. Don't you think so, Geri?"  
"Yes, Freki...Most interesting."  
The second wolf, Geri, trotted out of the bushes, approaching the valkyrie till it was a few inches away from her. A Dagger lay within its jaws.  
"Take this Dagger, girl. It has a foul taste around it."  
Asvora obeyed, herself too numb with fright to do anything else. With the Dagger out of it mouth, the Wolf shook its head furiously, as if trying to shake the taste out.  
"Absolutely disgusting."  
"Oh cheer up, Geri. Its nothing a good leg of deer can't cure."  
"I suppose you are right, Freki," the wolf's amber eyes focused back on Asvora for the last time, "Hurry girl. We helped you once. Don't expect us to help you again."  
"Unless Odin bids it so."  
"...Yes...unless One-Eyed Odin bids it so."  
With that as their farewell, Odin's pets, the wolves, Freki and Geri left her.   
It took a moment for Asvora to collect her senses about her. Her life had taken a second sudden twist with her gods, a second twist that she had been unprepared for. As if sensing the valkyrie's numbness to the world around her the Dagger flashed in a beam of moonlight, awakening Asvora out of her slumber of shock. Shaking her head to shed the last cloudy thoughts, she leapt into a run, heading towards her camp.  
When she neared the spot where the camp was, she bit her lip again. The fire was dying down, the light it given off only slightly brighter then the light of the moon. To a careless eye, it might to be the same amount of light. Her ears picked up no noise, which frightened her. The shaman usually muttered quietly in her sleep, and it was too late to do much else except sleep. Asvora took a deep breath to help steady herself, then walked into the clearing.  
For a moment she feared that she would now have to find the way back to Midgard by herself. The place where she had last seen the shaman was barren, as was the area close to the fire. They must have come to take Skyshadow right after the Wolves took the Dagger from Haslett. Her lip was too swollen to bite down on it again, and pain laced through her when she did. She didn't want to be alone again. Not again. Not now...  
"Snap out of it, girl. Hurry up, we need to go."   
Asvora blinked and looked in the direction of the voice. On top of the dirty Grey pony, sat the small old kobold, dark eyes piercing the darkness easily. The shaman held out the rope that made sure the stallion did not wander, to Asvora impatiently.  
Asvora shook her head to clear her thoughts. She had wanted to talk to the shaman about what had happened that night, wanted to show the shaman the Dagger, to ask her advice, but now she supposed was not the time. Danger was creeping up on them from all sides, though they did not know it.   
Grabbing the reins quickly, Asvora leapt onto the stallion's back, stuffing the Dagger into one of the bags.  
"Which way do we head?" The valkyrie questioned Skyshadow, tightly pulling on the reins to keep the stallion at an unsteady halt.  
"The way where we were always heading. To the North." Skyshadow whispered, glancing around the empty campsite nervously. It was too quiet, even for this time of night.   
"...We go now!" she hissed loudly to Asvora, kicking the pony, who snorted indignantly before breaking into a bumpy trot. The shaman kicked it again, hard, sending it into a gallop. At the sight of his small equine companion taking off, the stallion took his head abruptly, tearing the reins out of Asvora's hand, and took off into the forest.  
The men in the bushes watched them go.  
"Do we pursue?"  
"We will not pursue. We will follow."  
The leader looked at the trail left by the galloping horses, listened to the sounds of their pounding hooves, smelled the scent of their passing. It would be an easy trail to follow.   
  
***  
  
She smiled to herself as her mouth closed and her voice became silent. Asvora has done much fleeing from the British. Such was the bond between the bard and the valkyrie. Still smiling to herself, she tucked the lyre away, into her cloak. Life was beginning to stir around her once more, but she didn't notice any of it, so when large Norseman approached her, he caught her by surprise.  
"I don't often hear a voice like that." spoke the tall, man, a warrior by the sword on his back. His light blue eyes were sharp, as if trying to pierce the darkness of her hood. Not wanting to start an argument, she kept her head bowed, yet not so much that she could not see the man's moves.  
"I will take that as a compliment, strong warrior."   
"It is not meant to be a compliment. The last time I heard a voice like that was in the skirmish with Hibernia. From her bards," He paused a moment, crossing his arms, before jutting his chin towards the lump in her cloak that was the lyre. "The harp that you use is not Nordic made. Probably not even Midgardian made. The wood is from a tree that I saw only in the Land of the Celts."  
"That is because I found it in the arms of a dead elf." It was not a lie, yet nor was it a truth.  
The warrior had no answer to this statement. It was very possible that she spoke the truth. But...  
"Why is it that you use an instrument from Hibernia. Do you think that the ones from Midgard are to poor to use?"  
"Great warrior, I am but a poor skald. I take only enough money for me to eat and sleep by. I take no money to buy a new harp. It is by the gods' will that I have this instrument, else I would have none." she replied calmly.   
This exchange had attracted a lot of attention, and now most of the occupants eyes were focused on the two. It made the warrior nervous. Not wanting to disagree with the gods, or start a tavern brawl, her nodded his head in obvious farewell, breaking off the exchange quickly.   
"I would advise you to watch your back, skald. I do not trust you , no matter how great of words you weave." He whispered to the bard, in a voice only she could hear and understand. She said nothing in return, and made no movement that would have acknowledged the warning.  
Instead, she stood up, and walked out of the tavern, her back straight and confident.  
Blue eyes stared after her, their look having the sharpness of daggers.  
  



End file.
